Morbid Phrasing
by Cadence
Summary: Ditched again by the rest of the Scoobies at the Bronze, Xander banters and waxes somewhat truthful with a perfectly normal, perfectly human, perfect stranger. It has a companion story in Spritely Conventions.


Things that are not mine: BtVS and all characters and situations created within the show, the Sneaker Pimps and their song "Waterbaby", Sprite, Fuel and their song "Untitled". 

Morbid Phrasing

_Your heart is served cold_

_your sights are set in perfect stone_

_and when you go, you go alone_

_and when you stand, you're on your own_

Flickeringly, the lights set themselves into the beat around me. I know they are; focused on me, shining ruthlessly down from on high. They see, they are light. I'm alone. The all-knowing, slightly crispy gaze of the Bronze's lighting system only reinforces that fact. The haze shrouding the dance floor, seeping rhythmically into tables and murmuring wallflowers, does nothing to conceal my singular singularness.

_I wash the streets from your skin when you come home_

_I_ _wash the streets from your_ _skin when you come home._

I watch. The doors, the dancers, the laughing bartender, the deathlike words that stare blackly from the book I hold. Even the cracked leather that digs into my hands seems bitter tonight. Darker dearly. Dearly darker. Darkly dearer. The words echo wildly in my head, absorbed into my flesh from the coarse paper my fingers are brushing idly. They fit the Bronze so perfectly tonight. Lit dimly in the corners and aisles, I can't remember a time I didn't come here. Like an old friend really.

_We're nothing like friends_   
_you have no time to lend_

I can't remember a time I didn't meet them here.

_And if you're guilt then I'm the shame_   
_And if I'm hurt then you're the blame_

Oh, wait. Yesterday. They're off, somewhere else. World shattering matters to attend to. Classes to attend to. I clutch the book a little tighter now and almost smile at the imagery. Symbolism, too. The book is Giles', of course. I've started mixing business and pleasure. Rather, business and the anticipation of pleasure. I only read books like these when I'm waiting.

_You wash my trace from your skin and you leave again_   
_You wash my trace from your skin and you leave again_

I glance down at it, reading another line. That makes six tonight, fills my quota. I hate it. The print, the paper, the leather binding, and the pretentious wording. At the same time, I'm addicted. The pretension . . .it's only really emphasis, added to forewarn the foolhardy. Imagine that. These words, these silly prophecies are so important that they were written with such ponderous gravity that it comes off as pretentiousness. No one was supposed to forget.

Before I can wonder what it's like to be forgotten, I realize that I don't have the right to ask that. It would be hypocritical, having been one of the forgeters.

Humorlessly, I smile to myself and the room, "Just stake me and call me Jesse."

"That's an interesting way of introducing yourself."

I don't fall from my chair, but I do good impression of it.

_Random laid plans_   
_40 days of one night stands_

I can't help myself, I've been sitting here, brooding for a good time now and now a voice from nowhere has surprised me considerably. I stare. In shock.

My version of collecting myself mainly looks like a twitchy scanning of the exits, but really it isn't what it looks like. Really. Somewhere in the intervening time, the mystery woman sat down. Remembering that she spoke last, I respond, "Yes, yes it is."

Yay me. That was nearly semi-coherent. She's holding back laughter now. Good. Funny I can do.

But, unfortunately, bizarre confuses me. I know my eyebrows have probably pressed themselves into a fuzzy, otherworldly creature by now, but why should I understand why this beautiful stranger is offering me her Sprite? New obscene gesture that I haven't heard about?

She sighs, "My customs may seems odd to you, but it is an appropriate greeting among my people."

_And when you go you go alone_   
_You walk the cross you made your own_

So you say, but I'll bet you just forgot to remove the can before trying to offer a handshake. My voice box replies with, "So you like greetings do you?"

She takes that as a sign of goodwill, relinquishing the Sprite to the table and gravity, "Yes, indeed, and several other affirming words, Jesse." Not my name the last time I checked. I open my mouth. As I realize that I don't know what say, that being Jesse tonight is incredibly appropriate, my mouth shuts. She continues without noticing, "My name is Caitlin."

Nice to meet you, I'm a complete liar. But my friends call me Xander. Without actively trying, I'm suddenly searching for those darn friends again. Rudely searching. Good Xanders are polite to company.

_I wash the streets from your skin when you come home_   
_I wash the streets from your skin when you come home_

"Ditched?"

My eyes lock onto her fearfully. She's the perceptive type. I so don't want to talk about my problems tonight. Despite this, I gesture to the two other empty seats. Buffy, Willow, and Oz, I explain mentally.

I sigh, "Yeah."

She reaches across the table with this ridiculous expression of over dramatic sympathy to touch my hand, "Do you want to talk about it, because, while all I may know about you is your name that you like introducing yourself suicidally, I want to help."

Quirky and perceptive. I can't help but laugh at her abrupt silliness. Not that I know her well enough to say what is and what is not abrupt for her. Affecting an air of seriousness, I decree, "You. Are. Weird."

"But tell me what you really think."

I don't get it, "Why are you talking to me? I'm not complaining, but there is a certain weirdness factor to having a beautiful woman suddenly sit down at my table and engage me in heartfelt conversation."

Her finger traces the edge of her Sprite can cutesy-flirtsy, "Maybe I thought you were cute and wanted to take advantage of your body." Yeah, and I'm a Slayer. My eyebrows are doing things again, I think one is arched disbelievingly. "I was dancing in that place where people dance."

"Mm, I've heard of that place," I drawl.

She nods with unexpected sharpness, "And then I needed to be a place that wasn't there." Again with the brow raising. "Skeezy-unliked cheater guy." Oh. I don't know what to feel about that. She's not talking about me, I can't be hurt. She's not talking about Parker, I can't be angry. I decide to exhibit the no-reaction reaction. "Sorry to say this but," She pauses for more dramaticism, "you were a convenient out."

The pain, the sorrow. I shrug, "I've been worse."

Fuel. Yup, the new song playing is by Fuel. I can't quite place it, but there is a certain Fuelness about it. Faster than the last song, the atmosphere of the Bronze seems to lift slightly. Into a painful darkness rather than an aching darkness. The happiness is certainly not abounding tonight.

My eyes see Caitlin, head tilted, gazing curiously at my book for several seconds before it registers.

_I wanted to feel something_   
_To be something_   
_To see something_

I don't want her to see it. It's otherwordly and she's . . nice. She doesn't deserve it. And I don't want to get yelled at by Giles. I quickly cover the spine of the book, turn it toward myself. I quirk a smile that I hope isn't too strained, "It's, uh, a very interesting book."

"Sounds like," she deapans. So she read the title too. Great.

"No really, it is . . On several levels, in fact. On the one hand . . . no." I grin, "It's one of the most boring books I've ever read."

_I wanted to find_   
_One thing that was mine_   
_I'd leave this behind_

"Then whyfore?" asks Caitlin imploringly

"Art I reading it? Wacky, ancient tomes such as this," I shake it at her, "are studied quite muchly by friends such as these," I gesture roundly at the empty chairs.

It isn't pathetic at all. Not that I read them because they do. Not because I hope the occult aspect might somehow attract them. Not because reading it might make me useful to them.

Her head is all tilty again, "Who are they?"

_But I can't find my way_   
_To get far away_   
_And bury these days_

Could a more profound question be asked? "They," I begin, "are better than the world. They save the world and make it breathe in their heartbeats." Profundity by Xander Harris, catch the fever.

Caitlin seems to mull this over with a sort of quiet pleasure that such people could exist. Then she blinks herself to that neat little reality I live in, "Why aren't they here?"

I shrug, "People to be, places to meet."

The look she gives startles me into perfect stillness, "Did you know that inversion of words, sounds, or phrases as one _might _assume you just did is called a spoonerism?"

That's nice. "No, I did not. Have I told you how strange you are?"

"No, but I'm fairly sure that was covered earlier by 'weird'."

Details, details. I wave my hand in disregard, "Ah, carry on."

_Fantasy_   
_Once reality_   
_Becomes such a parody_

She's tapping her Sprite, "Do you do this often? Wait for them like this?"

The tables in the Bronze are very interesting, a useful fact when you don't want to meet someone's gaze, "Sometimes it seems like that's all I ever do."

She quiet, soaking that up. For a few moments, I ponder the advisability of telling her what bothers me most about this situation. Decided, I ask, "Did you ever define someone as a school friend?"

"Yes," she says, stretching the word for everything it's worth.

Deep breath, Xan. Maybe this'll make sense to someone who doesn't live in your head. "I think that's what I've become to my friends, except without the school part. We talk at, uh, work but never at any other time. They don't call me and we don't go anywhere anymore. I'm a school friend. It kinda sucks." That wasn't so hard, was it?

_If I could find_   
_One thing that was mine_   
_I'd leave this behind_

"You don't go to school with them, then?"

Not the most encouraging response, "Yes, I am townie, non-college boy. You may flee if you want to."

"Uh, why?"

What? Townie, avoid like plague. You know. But she doesn't and I try to remind her, "Because, um, stuff."

"Because you're not in college?" supplies Caitlin kindly.

Pretty much. I nod, "That's the reason. That I said earlier, mind you."

"I know _I _heard you say it." She know the way of things, "But I don't think I'm gonna flee."

_But I can't find my way_   
_To get far away_   
_And bury these days_

Again, what? I know I sound hurt, "Why not?"

She leans in, "'Cause I've got a secret."

Crap. Secrets, in my experience, are not good. Especially when they are held by strange women you've just met in the Bronze. Okay Buffy, this would be a nice time to show up. But she doesn't, I look. In fact, I look all around the Bronze. My gaze settles on the large mirror behind us, and I calm upon seeing that she does, in fact have a reflection. Not that she couldn't still be evil, but . . . large mirror? I wish I could just wipe the silly expression of shock off my face, "Has that always been there?"

"The mirror?" She glances backward, slightly confused, "All the years I've come here."

Oh, my God. Now that I think of it, that mirror has been in the Bronze at least since Buffy dated that Owen guy. I saw it on my "date" with Willow. This is too funny. I can't stop laughing. All these years.

Oddly enough, pain seems to sober me up. I stop laughing as I process that Caitlin just kicked me, impatiently asking,"So do you wanna hear my secret or not?!"

_If shining_   
_Or if shaking_   
_It's reality faking_

No more laughter, I swear. I bite my lip, "Of course."

She glances slantwise to both direction beside us and leans in, "I'm not in college, either."

But. . . but. . .But . . but, "But . .with the perceptiveness . . and bold . . how?"

Gleefully overdoing it, she poses, "I am an _artiste_! In training."

We're both laughing. It's funny. And tonight no longer sucks like certain fangy people i know. However, she seems to be stuck on that type of subject, "Why would I _stake_ you?"

Um. "'Cause of . . . the fun?" Good response! But she doesn't agree, so I swiftly add, "It's the slanguage of me and mine. I don't question your Spritely conventions so don't mock my morbid phrasing."

_If I could find_   
_One thing that was mine_   
_I'd leave this behind_   
  
"I think this has helped my hell given fury at mankind,"says Caitlin casually.

"Really?" I ask meditatively, hiding my joy that she liked talking to me. I'm not at all pathetic.

Haughtily, she grants me an answer, "It seems to be less of there."

"A goodly thing has been wrought," I concede.

Her eyes flick to the tome as she questions, "Are you sure that reading that tome is good for you?"

No. But if you think it's changed my speech patterns, you're wrong. "This conversing thing-y has been of the not bad," she glares at me fiercely, "of the good for me as well."

_But I can't find my way_   
_To get far away_   
_And bury these days_

Caitlin must see someone behind me. I won't let myself hope it's them. Besides how would she know? She makes her final recommendation to me, "Well, if you need more of that goodly thing, and I'm not around, take two of these," she taps her can," and call me in the morning."

"Uh-how?" Unless the Bronze is open at 10 am.

She pulls out a pen and, amazingly enough, writes her phone number on my hand, "With this mystical number, punched in correct sequence on an amazing mechanism, my voice can be summoned."

I grin. She has magic in her life, too, "I'll have remember that."

* * *

Buffy and Co are Trademarks and are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB, Fox Television, and whoever else has rights to them. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *


End file.
